Tag Archives: breastfeeding

If you are a mother then you know about the guilt. The guilt that accompanies every decision you make, every action you take (every cake you bake), every time you lose your patience, every time your child cries – you know what I mean. If you’re a dad? You don’t feel the guilt. You assume you’re doing an okay job, which is probably true, and you see no reason to feel bad about shit. And you probably don’t understand it either. My husband has no idea WHY I feel guilty and keeps trying to convince me not to. If only moms could be LOGICAL, Spock Jason.

So yeah. Guilt. GUILT GUILT GUILT. That’s what I’m feeling this week. This day. This hour. I am simultaneously sleep training and weaning Simon. Could I be a bigger asshole? I know. Really I do. But it’s time. For both. I am weaning slowly, in case you were wondering, but still. Man. The little tyke. He is so mad about it. He has become so clingy that if I put him down for one second he flips out. If I finally convince him to sit on the floor next to me and play but then I walk away (like to PEE because EVEN MOMS HAVE TO DO THAT) he screams and follows me. But… I need to be back on my medication. The time has come. I (and my husband) have put up with my depression for three and a half years now because that is how long I have been either pregnant or breastfeeding. OMG you guys. That’s a long time to be breasting or nesting! At one point I was doing both at the same time! Lordy. So yeah. I want my body to be mine again. I want to chew on Wellbutrin like candy until I feel like my old self again.

With Louisa the weaning wasn’t so difficult. First of all, she has never been clingy (probably because of the ASD) and second, we just weaned her to a bottle and voila. Simon WILL NOT take a bottle. At all. Oh he’ll hold it. And play with it. And bite on the nipple. But he won’t drink from it. So that’s out. Plan B is to just slowly get rid of a feeding here and there until they dwindle down to nothing. After two and a half weeks he is only getting one before sleep at night and one in the middle of the night. Nothing during the day. And yeah. He is not happy. Periodically when sitting on my lap he will just dive-bomb/motorboat me. It’s fantastic. But it is slowly happening. I figure by the end of the weekend he’ll be completely off. And I will dance a jig. And then cry. Because whilst I am really looking forward to this whole no-baby thing, I am also very sad about it. No more babies. Ever.

The sleep training… has not been so gradual. But can it ever be? I know I’m a crazy person who sleeps with my babies (I’m not the only one, but still, we’re crazy people) but it makes the nighttime breastfeeding so much easier. About a month ago, though, it got to the point where he was waking more than sleeping and I sort of figured that it was because I was waking him up. Turns out I was right. I was dreaaaading doing this because with Louisa it was torrrrrture but it was seriously nothing. I shouldn’t be writing this on the internet because he is going to know that I told people and immediately start staying up all night but guys. The first night he fell asleep in 20 minutes, woke up once at like 1:30 for a feeding and then slept until 7 am. Two nights later he slept from 8:30 until 4:30, then went back down until about 5:45 and that’s been his MO ever since. Minimal screaming. Minimal drama. At night, that is. He is now refusing to nap because it takes him away from me and he can’t be away from me (see above re: super clingy baby). Basically I have to bounce/pat/cajole him to sleep on my shoulder and then wait until he’s way out to put him down. And still he’ll only stay out for 30 minutes. He used to be a solid napper. Two a day, at least 90 minutes a piece. I will trade the nighttime sleep for the naps, however. Because I get to sleep now! I mostly don’t though because I’m a dipwad who stays up way too late watching House of Cards with my husband and/or reading books and/or blogging but I could sleep if I wanted to (and probably should if the gigantic bags under my eyes are any indication) and that’s all that matters, right?

The alternative title to this post was All Of The Fun We Are Having At My House Right Now but that just seemed a little too melodramatic, even by my standards.

So yeah. I had my six-week postpartum followup thingie today. Which means this pregnancy is officially over. Sure, I guess you’re right, it was technically over once I pushed a human out my hoohaw but really, today sort of solidified it. I will never be pregnant again. Which, you know, whatever. Neither of my pregnancies was exactly a cakewalk (said the queen of understatement) but still. Not growing anymore babies in this ol’ uterus. And right, I still have a tiny baby and will be breastfeeding for at least another 10&1/2 months so there’s that. And I bet some of you are shaking your heads and muttering “famous last words” like I’m somehow either A) going to accidentally get knocked up again or B) change my mind and decide I want another baby and to that I say “awww, internet – you are so cute”. Because AS IF, PEOPLE. Did you read anything at all about my last pregnancy? Or the one before that? But anyway, if you need actual proof that it ain’t happenin…

My husband had a vasectomy today. Ain’t no thang. [side note: Except that it is because apparently he had some complications that while not exactly rare are not exactly common either and thus made the whole purported ease of the procedure (IN THE TIME IT TAKES YOU TO WATCH THIS VIDEO, YOU TOO COULD HAVE A NO-SCALPEL VASECTOMY) seem like a lie and now he has to keep icing his junk or it might swell up. Of course he did. Because apparently the entire Carter family are a bunch of circus freaks with this whole procreating business and we should JUST STOP ALREADY. Which we are. The End]. Anyhoo – we had talked about the vasectomy when I was still pregnant with Simon, yea, even before all of the drama ensued because we knew we were done. I mean, I had tiny slivers of thoughts that it would be super fun to have three kids (I grew up as one of four and it was (and still is) awesome to have that many siblings to fight with constantly be friends with) but yeah, please see my Blog Posts of Pregnancy Past about complication on top of complication on top of hospitalization on top of HOLY SHIT HOW DID YOUR BABY SURVIVE?! for the reasons why that desire has been totally and completely wiped out. But even though we had talked about it I was unsure how quickly my husband would actually follow through because you know, whatevs, you ain’t even allowed to have the intercourse until the six-week checkup and that’s like, FORREVURRR. But he must have been as traumatized as I was by The Great Pregnancy Drama of ’14 because he called his doctor for a referral visit like three weeks after I delivered and now, here we are. Me with my fully-recovered (but never to be the same again) hoohaw and my husband with a bag of frozen peas on his nuts. We sure know how to party! Woot! Four-day weekend! Please remember to have a moment of silence for his poor vasa deferentia on Memorial Day, folks. PS – I’m trying hard not to feel guilty that he is in pain and stuff. I mean, I pushed babies out my hoohaw. Drug-free! Plus THIS. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Right?

Anyway. No more Carter babies, y’all.

In other news: Simon is currently going through his fussy phase. You know, that three-month period where they cry for like, five hours every evening? Yeah that. And he does it while I’m working. And Jason is trying to bathe Louisa and get her in bed.

In other news: I’m changing my work schedule.

In other news: I drove like, four different places today. All by myself. And wore real clothes (rather than the stretched out maternity yoga-type pants that I normally live in) and makeup and errythang! And then I came home and worked a four-hour shift. And then my husband got a vasectomy. And then he drove to the airport to pick up his mom and stepdad (they live in Bullhead City, Arizona so our airport is the closest to them and they went on vacation all week and he dropped them off last week not realizing that they would get back on the day he had the snip and when I volunteered to go get them for him he was like NAW so don’t think it’s because I’m a horrible wife or anything because I’M NOT). And then I went to Walmart to get frozen peas and corn for his nuts and candy for our bellies but I forgot the frozen peas and corn (you guys, I am such a horrible wife) because I’m a fat girl and all I care about is da candies so then I had to go back out to the store, and I may or may not have been listening to The 80s at 8 on whatever the hell radio station and listening to Pat Benatar and White Snake really loud because that’s how I roll. By which I mean I AM SO OLD.

I remember somebody once saying, to someone who was just about to have their second kid, “Good luck! And remember, the second kid is 100% more kid!”. I didn’t think much about it. But now that I have spent the past few weeks with two children I totally understand what he was getting at. It’s not like I had a conscious thought that having another kid would be like adding 10% more kid, no no, nothing like that. But I guess I just figured I had taken care of an infant before so obviously I could do it again. And I had been taking care of Louisa for nigh on 21 months (minus the two I was in the hospital – grrrr) so obviously I was capable of doing that. So there wouldn’t be a problem, right? But see, the thing is, taking care of both of them at the same time? Good lord. I’ll tell you what THAT means. It means that one of them is always being neglected. Not in a place-a-concerning-phonecall-to-CPS kind of way but in small little ways that make me, as a mother, feel guilty. Like when I am breastfeeding Simon but then suddenly Louisa poops so I have to pop him off and go change her. Or when I am playing with Louisa and her menagerie of Mr Potato Heads and suddenly Simon wakes up and starts shrieking – so I have to ditch her and the spuds to go figure out what he wants (milk – it’s always milk). It’s quite a thing.

Other than the neglect, though, I think we’re doing okay. We’ve all pretty much adjusted to the chaos that is our world. There are definitely bad moments, like last week when I thought I would be clever and take both kids for a walk. I put Simon in the carrier on my chest and just let Louisa run wild outside as she loves to do. Unfortunately, she is closing in on those terrible twos and sometimes suddenly decides that she needs to be picked up and carried home. And if I tell her I can’t do it she throws herself on the ground and screams. Normally I don’t give in to tantrums because then she learns that tantrums get rewarded and will keep throwing them, right? I’ve gotten pretty good at diffusing them either by redirecting her, offering her a compromise or, in a pinch, bribing her (she really likes “cookies” (graham crackers)) but on this particular day I was extra sleep-deprived and extra irritated so I just got angry. I picked her up and proceeded to march home, mumbling epithets under my breath. Just as we got to our front door I felt my feet go out from under me. I’m not sure if I tripped over something (other than my clumsy feet) or just got off balance because it all happened very fast but suddenly we were falling. All three of us. Obviously my first instinct was to protect my kids so I didn’t break my fall but grabbed onto both of them. Sadly, Louisa bumped her head anyway but luckily it wasn’t a terrible bump. She cried a lot but I think it scared her more than it hurt. And thank goodness nothing happened to the baby other than he was awakened from his comfy be-bosomed sleep. My left knee, however, is messed up. Like, something is really wrong with it and I should probably see a doctor. There are also definitely good moments, like when Louisa walks up to Simon, points at him and says “Si?” with that cute little toddler voice. This is part of her favorite game. She likes to point first at Jason and say “Da?”, then at me and say “Ma?”, and then when one of us points at her and says “Louisa!” she laughs. So the fact that she was now including Simon in her little game, especially after spending his first week home either looking at him suspiciously or conveniently pretending he wasn’t there, made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And then there are the moments where despite the fact that things are crazy, I feel like I am a total badass – like yesterday when I took both kids to the pediatrician. By myself. Simon had his one month checkup (yes, he is already a month old, how does the time slide by so quickly?!) and Louisa was just along for the ride. I suppose I could have asked either Jason’s mom or my dad to come and watch her so I could just take him but I figured I would save those favors for when I really need them. I mean, at the pediatrician’s office there are always at least three kids screaming at the same time so who cares if my kids join in. And they did. Oddly enough Louisa was fine (having thought ahead I had plenty of sticker books, raisins and gold fish crackers to keep her quiet) until the doctor walked in and then she started screaming and reaching for me. I’m not sure if she was remembering her last appointment when she had the hand, food and mouth disease or what but she did NOT want to have anything to do with the doctor. I tried explaining to her that nothing bad was happening but she continued to scream through the whole thing anyway. Which made it very difficult to listen to what the doctor was saying. Luckily I’ve done this before so I know what to expect – is he pooping and peeing enough?, he needs vitamin D drops, at two months he’ll get shots, blah blah blah. And all the while she is screaming. And then as soon as the doctor handed Simon back to me HE started shrieking. For the love, you guys. Cut me a break. They continued to scream and shriek as I dressed Simon and put him back in the carrier. They screamed and shrieked all the way down the hall, past the checkout clerk (who smiled politely and said “have a nice day” – right, YOU TOO, JERK) and halfway to the car. And instead of being anxious I just thought “whatevs” and kept on walking. That’s right, motherhood – you don’t scare me. I got this.

So that’s my life now. It vacillates between good and bad, easy and hard, calm and crazy. I try to relish the good moments and relax when it’s calm, knowing always that any minute now things will be nutty again. I try hard not to get too irritated with Louisa when she is just being a toddler because someday she will be a teenager and I will look back on her toddler days longingly. At least once per day, when Simon is sleeping, I pay a whole lot of attention to her so that hopefully she doesn’t feel like I’ve ditched her. I try hard to enjoy Simon’s tiny infant phase instead of wishing it away. This is a difficult one for me because I know that things get so much easier when babies are even a few months older. A blogger I frequently read once said something about the problem with babies being that they eventually turn into children. I am the opposite. I think the problem with children is that they have to start out as babies. Not that I didn’t/don’t love my babies it’s just… they’re so high maintenance and needy and fragile and I get so very anxious. I had forgotten all about the postpartum anxiety that I experienced with Louisa. Did I develop amnesia or just block it out of my head because I had the baby fever? I’m not sure but it’s all coming back to me. I was so anxious that I never slept, even when she did. It was crazy. I don’t think I ever told anybody about it (not even my husband) because I never really acknowledged it to myself. And I can’t really describe what it felt like other than I just sort of constantly felt like something terrible was going to happen or that I was failing miserably at everything. I probably should have been on medication but oh well. Anyway, it’s not that bad this time. But I still have a hard time not wishing the next few months would zip by so that he will be sleeping better, eating solid foods, sitting up etc. I keep telling myself this is my last baby so I should enjoy it. And for the most part it is working. We got ourselves a monstrosity of a double stroller so that I can stuff both kids in it and go for a walk. My mom is coming to visit this weekend and that will make things easier for the few days that she is here. My husband has a three-day weekend coming up so that will be fun. And I’ve gotten good at timing Louisa’s naps so that she and Simon are both asleep for about two hours which means I can get some rest too. Or squander the time blogging…

Plus, just look at these kids! Who wouldn’t be happy surrounded by them?

I probably should have waited to write that last post. Because of jinxing stuff, you know. Don’t get me wrong, Simon is still fine, but he is also still in the NICU. Let’s just say some doctors are better at explaining stuff than others and the doctor who was in the NICU on Tuesday told us that his CRP had gone down. He didn’t mention that regardless of what happened with it, he would have to be in the hospital on antibiotics for at least 7 full days. Meaning the earliest he can come home is THIS Tuesday morning. Like, the day after tomorrow. When did I actually find that out? Today. After the third doctor of the week spoke to us. She was lovely, did not have an incredibly-difficult-to-understand accent (both of the other doctors did), did not act like we were putting her out by asking questions about our SICK NEWBORN BABY for crying out loud (only one of the other doctors was like that but it was difficult to refrain from scratching his eyes out) and explained everything that is happening with little dude. I’ll spare you the details and just say that he will be here until Tuesday or Wednesday. And I have been pumping milk and driving back and forth (30 minutes each way) to the hospital to drop off milk and to breastfeed and spend time with baby #2 while husband takes care of baby #1. So I feel guilty about being away from the two of them (especially because Louisa already spent 2 months away from me and now prefers my husband to me which breaks my heart) but when I’m at home I feel guilty that Simon is being cared for by nurses, I’m tired as all get out from all the driving and from waking up in the middle of the night to pump so that my milk doesn’t dwindle, I’m stressed (welcome back, diarrhea!), I’m worried about both kids, I have post-pregnancy hormones that make it desperately difficult to be away from my newborn, and to top it off my husband’s work is suddenly giving him shit about taking time off. Oh, not to mention, I’m still recovering from labor and childbirth. So yeah. There have been a few crying jags at home and in hospital bathrooms this week. I had two today alone. Can someone please stop the insanity of this year? Can someone please guarantee that once Simon gets home this fucking nightmare will be over and we can get some peace? Please?

Last year I was in the hospital receiving IV fluids, panicking about labor induction and C-sections, sweating in the extreme heat and wondering if my baby was going to make it to full-term. This year I’m counting down the days (S E V E N) to Louisa’s birthday and being super excited about her party. A party that she will not remember or ever really care about. I, however, am going overboard but she’s my first baby and it’s her first birthday so yeah. Overboard happens y’all.

I was just re-reading my old posts from a year ago and I was much wittier and a better writer back then. But I can explain. See, what happens when you have a baby is that your brain melts and you become boring and unable to do much of anything. I’m good at taking care of her. I’m good at my job. Apparently I can’t really be good at much else. C’est la vie.

And, despite the fact that I re-read about the horrors of the last trimester of my pregnancy including fluid level panics, bed rest, water drinking, biophysical profiles, hospitalization for fluids blah blah biddy blah I’m still all like MOAR BABIES PLEASE. Yes, babies. I’m actually hoping for twins because for some reason I have decided I want three children (hormones make women craaaaazaaaaaay) and because I’m thirty six years old (and therefore my baby window is rapidly closing) I’ve convinced myself that the absolute terror of twins (two. babies. AT THE SAME TIME.) might just be worth it. I have, in fact, been googling how to get pregnant with twins. (God bless google. Have you ever not found what you’re looking for? Never! It’s always there!). I found this. So I’ve got like, six out of seven twin-making properties going for me (and there’s not much I can do about my ethnicity so… yeah). I’ve been taking prenatals (and hence folic acid) since before Lou was born, I’m still breastfeeding, I’m a fatty (finally a reason to be glad about that!)… and there are twins on my mom’s side. So YAY TWINS! C’mon TWINS! I need me a little Fred and George!

So yeah. I have, apparently, completely lost my effing mind. My poor husband. I mean, right now not so much because SEX SEX ALL THE SEX GIVE ME BABIES YEAH! but C’MON. Twins. What the?! I showed him that page about how to get them on purpose and he just looked at me with that I-knew-you-were-crazy-but-wtf? face.

Anyway – sorry about not being funny or a good writer anymore. I can’t believe anyone is still reading my blog. And if I do have twins and thus become even more stupid and dull, well, sorry about it. In the meantime cross your fingers and help me cheer on the ova and swimmers. Or forget I said that at all and try to wipe that image out of your heads.

…and the only prescription is another baby. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when it went from “oh sure, I’d have another” (which was around Christmas time) to ERMAGERD. BABY. NOW. But it has happened. Again. And we are officially trying. Not that we have ever been officially NOT trying because we haven’t really been careful since Christmas but now Aunt Flo has finally come back (sorry) so yeah. It’s on. My current kid is still: 1 – not sleeping through the night. 2 – teething. And yet, I still want to be knocked up. Those are some strong hormones. Well played, God/Mother Nature/evolution/The Universe.

Well, it wasn’t Mama, but at least it wasn’t Dada either. My baby’s first word? Kitty. Those assholes. She chases them around the house (they run because they hate her (and rightfully so – she either pulls the shit out of their fur or plops right on top of them)) and has probably heard me say “kitty” about a thousand times (is that a kitty? that’s a kitty! go get the kitty! be nice to the kitty. don’t pull the kitty’s fur. KITTY don’t scratch the baby!) so I guess it’s not too much of a shock but PFFFFFTTTTTTT. Jason swears that she said “hi” the other day too but until I hear it I ain’t buying it.

In other news, she took her first real steps the other day. She’s been standing for months, cruising for a few weeks, and pushing behind her walker for about a week now but these were bona fide, all-by-herself steps. Sure, it was only a few but it signals that walking is imminent.

As is her first birthday (HOLY. SHITBALLS.)! Three weeks from tomorrow and she has been on this planet for an entire year. Which means:

1. I have kept another human alive for an entire year.

2. I can pack up the breast pump and the nursing bra because it is time to wean, bitchez.

3. I haven’t slept for an entire year. !

4. We havin’ a party! I’ll write about that later. With pictures. Which brings me too..

The point of this blog was mostly just to do a post with some pictures in it because I haven’t for a while. I’ve been putting ’em up like crazy on the facebook but most of y’all (except for my family (hi family!)) are not my facebook “friends” so you won’t have seen the preciousssssss for a while. So yeah, my baby is growing up. And here’s proof:

That’s yogurt. There are at least 30 pictures of me at the same age doing the same thing only with lotion (or vaseline, or mud…)

My mom got her this paddling pool for her upcoming birthday and she loooooved it.

That’s her eating a s’more. Yes. A s’more. Babies get to do whatever they want with the grandparents.

Oh my god, you guys. I’m all alone. By myself. Out in the world. Without my baby. Or my husband. And I have no idea how to behave. I’m like my cats when they dart out the open front door FINALLY ESCAPING THE CONFINES OF THE EVIL HOUSE and then they stop short, having no idea what to do next. So many things to sniff! So many places to scratch!

If I was smart I’d be napping but oh well. I’ll sleep when I’m 50.

I finally decided that it’s okay if I need some time alone. It doesn’t mean I’m a bad mom, it means I’m a human. I know, you other moms figured that out a long time ago – I’m a little slow. And good at guilting myself into thinking I’m not allowed to be human now that I’m a mom. But look at me! At the library! Writing in my journal, blogging, staring out the window, thinking! All without obsessively checking on the napping baby or trying to play with her with one hand and type with the other.

Soooo, what should I do now? I live in Vegas. I guess I could catch Thunder From Down Under (I can’t tell you how embarrassed I was just now, looking that up at the library – what if somebody saw? Once a Mormon, always a Mormon), or go gamble away our life savings (oh wait, we don’t have a life savings, scratch that plan), or drink a foot-long alcoholic beverage while wandering drunkenly up the strip. It’s what all the chubby, still breastfeeding (not for LONG though!), sleep-deprived, tragically unhip, thirty-something moms are doing.

What I’ll probably end up doing, however, is finishing this blog, going to buy some SlimFast (I need to lose 50 pounds before I get pregnant again (and yes we’re talking about it but don’t get too excited yet Mom (and Dad) because it’ll be a few months still)) and then going home where I’ll bake cookies and snuggle in for a nap with my baby. Because ultimately that’s where I like to be. And apparently all I needed was 60 minutes alone. By myself. Out in the world.

Remember this? Ha hahahaha. I laugh at myself and my worries that my baby wasn’t eating anything because y’all, she is now an eating machine – a crazed piranha who swallows, ravenously, anything we put into her mouth including baby cereal and vegetables which she would previously spit out in spectacular fashion by blowing a giant raspberry as if to say “ha! I laugh at you as I spray food all over your glasses, idiot parental unit!”. She even snarfs PRUNES which is fantastic because it’s helping to clear up the constipation situation.

It all started last Thursday. My stepdad, Paul, was in town just for the night (using our place as a pitstop on the way to Cali to visit my stepbrother). I was working, as I do every evening, and so had to bolt my food down and leave the baby feeding to the husband and stepdad. I could hear them laughing and chatting about how much she was eating and was all like “what the?”. So I went out to see what was happening and Jason was like “did you starve her all day or something?” because apparently she had scarfed an entire jar of baby food. **side note** all throughout my pregnancy and the first 6 months of Lou’s life I had planned to make baby food. And then I did. And then she wouldn’t eat. And hated food, every food, ALL THE FOOD. So I gave up and just bought commercial jars of baby food hoping that would entice her into eating. Which it really didn’t. Until now. **end of side note**

The next day she scarfed more baby food, lots of baby food, all the baby food! And chopped-up chunks of peaches. And baby cereal. Can I get a what WHAT?! I was so excited. For the few weeks since that last post she has been eating stuff, just not with relish and only teensy bits at a time and now she reminds me of the hungry hungry hippos. We sit down at meal time and her mouth just keeps opening opening opening whenever you get near it (which means beware of your fingers at all times) and even sometimes when you’ve stopped to try to reload the spoon. She eats with gusto! And she smacks her lips. Hilarious.

I’m assuming she is going through some sort of growth spurt, possibly brought on by the enormous amount of exercise she is getting during the day what with crawling the entire length of the apartment roughly 672 times a day. Except for sleeping (and even sometimes whilst sleeping!) she is crawlingcrawlingcrawling, climbing on me to stand up, crawlingcrawlingcrawling, practicing walking while holding Daddy’s hands etc etc etc. So she must be burning all the calories and needing to replenish.

Which means the boobays are getting a helluva workout as well. Which is okay because it’s mostly in the form of pumping. I have decided to start the weaning process now in the hopes that by the time she is a year old (in a mere two months. what? who authorized that?) I can be done. I love the fact that I have breastfed her and nourished her and given her that healthy start in life, but I am so done. I want my body back. Not that I need to justify myself to you but after searching the interwebs for helpful suggestions on how to start the weaning process and finding mostly information about why you should breastfeed for a year and beyond and only stop when the baby is ready I am feeling the old Mom Guilt again. But whatever. Listen, judgy moms, you’re not helping anyone, so stuff it. ANYWAY – I have been pumping and feeding her from bottles during the day, only using the actual melons for putting her to sleep at nap times. At night she still gets it pretty much whenever she wakes up because I’m not ready to fight that battle just yet. And I know it’s going to be a battle.

My baby was up for two hours in the middle of the night last night. Again. She did the same thing Sunday night. Off to sleep as normal at 8 pm, slept for a few hours, then boom. Up. Playing. Not crying or wanting to eat. Just playing/crawling/pulling up/babbling. As you know, my baby sleeps with me. We put our mattress back on the box springs and put her crib up right next to it, leaving off the side rail (it converts to a toddler bed, thank god, otherwise it would have been a totally wasted purchase) so instead of being panicked that she’ll roll off onto the floor I just let her roll into it and she sometimes sleeps there for a few hours. So that’s where she plays in the middle of the night. And then head butts me to try to get me to join in. What. The. Fuck. Is it the teething? The crawling? The now trying to stand up? Her just being a turd? What?! Help me out here. My husband and I were both so frustrated we were yelling at each other and at her which resulted in her screaming and him sleeping on the couch because he has to get up at like 5 to go to work. JESUS. And so. I feel like a terrible mom. There. I said it. And not just because of the not sleeping. It’s also because I never started her on a bottle so now that the weaning process is looming on the horizon I know it’s going to be super difficult (and I’m absolutely dreading it). It’s because I taught her to only go to sleep by breastfeeding and again, weaning – looming – dreading. How the fuck is this going to work? Hi, baby. Please figure out another way to wind down even though you’ve known nothing else for the entirety of your life. Oh, and you have so much energy I wonder if you have a secret crack stash.

But mostly I feel like a shitty mom because I am depressed. Depressed depressed depressed. I coped with being unmedicated during the pregnancy (probably because I was way too anxious to worry about the depression) and have stubbornly lied to myself for the past 9 months since Lou was born that I would be okay, I needed to keep breastfeeding and I didn’t want her getting drugged through the titties. And slowly but surely I am drowning. I love my life. I love my husband, my baby, my job, my apartment – pretty much all of it. But I can’t be happy. That’s the thing that sucks about mental illness, there’s no reason for it – you should be happy, but you just aren’t. I am constantly negative, critical, self loathing, dark, angry, sarcastic, mean etc etc. And then I feel guilty (a mother’s specialty, no?) because sure she’s getting the fantastic benefits of breast milk but she’s also getting a shitty me. Wouldn’t she be better off with a happy mom? One who doesn’t sometimes want to scream when she tries to bite my nipple off or climbs on top of me all day long. See what a shitty mom I am? Fuck my brain chemistry, man. For reals.

So a couple of weeks ago the husband and I had a gigantic screaming fight. Over what? Who knows, but I screamed and threw things and swore and called him names. All in front of our child. Wow, am I ashamed of that moment. And so the next morning I called my doctor. And made an appointment. And went to talk to her about getting back on the magical happy pills that make me less… me. Because me? Kinda sucks right now.

And still I waffled. She wanted me to talk to Lou’s pediatrician to see if it was okay to takes the meds and keep on breastfeeding. I did. It’s not ideal, but you weigh the risks and the benefits, she said. So again I felt guilty. And kept on keeping on. And on. And on. And then yesterday I had some kind of moment of clarity where I realized that I need to be better, happy, normal. Even if that means taking drugs while breastfeeding. Even if that means weaning earlier than I normally planned. And so I called my doctor to say “SIGN ME UP”. And so I checked out books from the library on weaning. And I felt… better… Still depressed (dark, angry, bitter, caustic, toxic…) and guilty, but better.